Glowing and Sparkles
by Snarkoleptic
Summary: 'Tis the season for giving at Vigil's Keep, and the Secret Satinalia party for the Wardens is alight with all the poorly rendered graphical effects of the Awakening era. Parody, with some small amount of crack.


**Title: ** Glowing and Sparkles

**Summary: ** 'Tis the season for giving at Vigil's Keep, and the Secret Satinalia party for the Wardens is alight with all the poorly rendered graphical effects of the Awakening era. Parody, with some small amount of crack.

**Disclaimer:** BioWare owns all; I just play in their pond.

**Author's Notes:** While chatting back and forth with Contort about her pieces _Precision_ and _Ash and Bile_, she and I ended up talking about game mechanics and Awakening in general. She had to go out and point all the glowing and the sparkles, and now here we are. She gave me permission to run with it, so if you end up with any side effects from the crack, go talk to her. ;)

As a side note, though they have nothing to do with this fic other than prompting Contort and I to start talking, I highly recommend both _Precision_ and _Ash and Bile_, particularly for Anders fans. They're dark, they're gruesome, and they're incredibly well-written portrayals of events in the man's life that make you think about canon events in quite a different context.

Reviews are always welcome!

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><p><strong>THUD.<strong>_ Ow!_

Satinalia has come, and somehow all of the-

**THUD.**_ Ow!_

-Wardens have managed to finish their duties afield-

**THUD.**_ Ow!_

-and return to Vigil's Keep for the Secret Satinalia gift exchange.

**THUD.**_ Ow!_

Commander Caron has arranged for a rather excellent mulled wine-

**THUD.**_ Ow!_

-and as she sips, she finds herself becoming _just_ as annoyed as she was-

**THUD.**_ Ow!_

-tromping around Blackmarsh, though she can't for the life of her put her finger on why.

**THUD.**_ Ow!_

_::Jesus Christ, Justice! You're not in battle anymore! Turn off the goddamn clicky, thundering, repetitive wave you've got going on before my headache gets even worse! You're threatening to destroy my beautiful holiday scene before I've even finished setting it! Never mind whatever necrophiliac inclination you've got swimming through your dead head, __**this**__ is why I haven't taken you to Amaranthine yet!::_

As Caron hears the shrill booming that passes her ears and echoes back from behind the throne of the arling loudly enough to mask the corpse's self-conscious apology, she is relieved at the sudden peace and content with having realized what it was that irked her. Then, she is immediately and rather unfestively _pissed_.

"Andraste's radiant ass! _Voldrik!_" she bellows, in her menacing yet sing-song Orlesian lilt. "Did I or did I not specifically tell you to fix the holes in the fourth wall before running around up there making love to your blighted battlements?" Caron wonders, and not for the first time, if Wardens don't die killing Archdemons to spare themselves the misery of being sent to resurrect some backwater post offered as the most unlikely reward by an even more backwater and unlikely King.

Breathing deeply, she returns her attention to her wine, eventually taking in the scene around her and desperately trying to put herself in the mood to pass out Maker-knows-what to her Wardens and allies. The multi-hued candles and garlands meet her approval, most certainly. She had selected them herself, from her memories of holidays before her magic came and she went to live in the Circle. _Proper_ holidays, like the ones they put on in Orlais.

She makes a mental note to congratulate whoever had the brilliant idea to place the candles within crystal enclosures. They lend such a light and reflective sparkle to the room. Surely the idea must have originated in the minds of one of the servants she brought from home. It's much too grand and creative and not-at-all-reminiscent-of-dogs to have come out of someone born _here_.

She can't decide, however, if the ambiance is enhanced or diminished by the _other_ dazzling effects in play within her throne room. They certainly do make themselves known, and even amidst the blinding flash the corpse had been releasing like wind after a camp dinner they had been very evident.

_Ah, well. Best get on with it, and I can deal with them one by one upon closer inspection._ Caron claps her hands, calling for the attention of her Wardens so she can get this over with and spend the rest of her evening in relative peace. "Gather, everyone. Glowering from the corners and shadows is no fit way to conduct a holiday. I am quite pleased," she continues, proving that one can reach the rank of Warden-Commander and be given her very own arling without a single shred of self-awareness of which to speak, "that my instructions to affix anonymous notes to the gifts were properly followed. This is a _Secret_ Satinalia exchange, and any acknowledgement of the recipient might lead to unwanted fraternization."

Drawing a package she suspected to be a book from the stack at her elbow, she calls Sigrun as the first to receive her present. "_Must_ you radiate that sickening hue onto the traditional colors of the season? Had I not spent so long in the Deep Roads with you at my side, I might begin to suspect Dworkin of once again urinating in the halls."

"Can't help it, Commander!" the plucky dwarf chirps. "That's just the natural fortitude and resilience I get for killing myself to fight darkspawn!"

"Very well, then. The note attached to your gift reads: _Ye're missin' out on the best book on yer shelf just because ye don't know a few fancy words. Maybe after this gift finally finishes givin', you might be tempted to start. Heeh.'_ I see. Well, then open it."

It is hard to tell how much of that was the commander's natural accent and how much is an attempt to conceal the source of the gift. Pulling apart the wrapper, Sigrun announces the title of the book contained within. "_Of Antivans and Dairies and Breads, Oh, My: A Legendary Lexicon of Literary Love._ 'Oh, my' seems just about right." Offering perfunctory thanks to Oghren as she feeds the book into the great brazier at the center of the hall, she takes care to stand as far away from him as she can for the remainder of the proceedings.

More determined now than she had been to get this over with, Caron reaches for another package, struggling a bit under its weight. "Oghren, this one bears your name. _Seeing this brought to mind your fascination with stones in lava._ While you are rather bright, I find the red tones shimmering across your person add to the festivity of the event. Carry on, but please do so underneath one of the crystalline enclosures._"_

Shredding paper in his haste, Oghren reveals an awkwardly-shaped glass enclosure, set into a wide silver base and topped at its rather thinner end with a silver cap. "Heeeey, this thing looks like somethin' one o' them pike twirlers in the fancy city might put up his… Never mind." Carrying the gift back to where he'd been standing, he manages to nod at Velanna before becoming transfixed by the floating stones and oils behind the glass.

Finding the next present to be heavier than she can manage, the commander detaches the note and summons Justice over to handle it himself. "Your note, Justice, reads: _Here. _You_ have been served. Now I want to hear no more about my original purpose in coming here._ I suppose no purpose would be served in asking you to discard that protective coating from the Fade, though it _does_ clash terribly with the stone used to pave the floor."

With as much curiosity as the spirit can manage between the decomposing facial structure and the whole Fade thing, Justice neatly packs away the carefully removed wrapping before deciding he recognizes the gift. "This is the shield that went missing. From my back. Two months ago. We have much to discuss, Nathaniel, on the topic of your liberal interpretation of the concept of justice."

Absently massaging her brow with one hand, Caron casts the other about behind her to come up with the next. "Velanna. I approve of the green glow you have cast upon the proceedings this evening. I knew there would be some continued benefit to keeping you in and out of nature. Your gift message reads: _Peace may be found when the gift of balance is achieved._ That… almost sounds as if someone may have taken this event seriously. I may faint dead away."

Unwrapping and opening the box, Velanna discovers she has received two gifts, however related they may be. "Lovely. Shackles for the wrist and a copy of the latest treatises on the laws surrounding murders in the arling." Flipping the tome into the fire, the elf tosses the shackles to the spirit's feet and thinks of the booming voice that had intruded into the throne room earlier. "I suggest you keep those. You'll need some balance if you ever track Aura down."

Caron begins to discover she doesn't need Justice's incessant thudding for a headache of her very own. "Very well. Nathaniel, this next note is addressed to you, and I _do_ so hope the gift is worthwhile. You're the only one present this evening who isn't showering his environs with his own personal color."

"I could start to sing, if you like."

"Please don't. Your note reads: _To aid you in the continued efforts to heal the fragments of your past._"

Nathaniel can't begin to imagine what he might find, even as the heft and shape point toward the package containing a book. Fearing the worst, he uses a dagger to open the wrapping at the spine and reveal the title of the time-worn book to the room. "_**Howe**__ to Establishe the Basickes of an Heroicke Reputationne._ I won't even ask the follow-up questions, Anders." As with the other paper gifts of the evening, the volume and its wrapping are quickly fed into the flaming brazier.

Caron watches the flames surge now, under the force and timbre of the most incredibly revolting belch she has ever in her life heard. "Oghren! Did you _drink_ the lava lamp?"

"What? It was lookin' at me funny." Coughing, the dwarf dislodges a random stone that strikes the floor and skitters away.

"One more," the commander draws breath to continue speaking, but is interrupted.

The healer asks her to pause as he steps up. "I hate to ask it of you, Commander, as the white of it all is so very festive, but could you step completely out of the Fade? You're not using your sword just now, and it's only I can see through you, and every time one of those sparkles passes through your eyes I can _feel_ it. Right in my retina, like a stabbity little demon."

Caron heaves a gusty sigh and dismisses her hold on the spirit realm. "Very well. Anders, your note reads as follows: _Nothing wrong with getting creative in your hunt for freedom!_ Maker have mercy, I can't say I care what's in here as long as it manages to speak to something in you. I'd chastise you for the inappropriate blue you're spilling over everything, but I'm not finished being amazed we haven't needed to call upon you for your services this evening."

Oddly touched in a way he doesn't care to contemplate given his reputation and the remnants of festivity in the room, Anders opens a box to find an assortment of things, eventually regarding the giver – only _one_ left it could be, after the rest had been caught out – with his question. "There are… little hammers with large heads, and vises, and stones, and a few bandages shoved off in the corner. Dare I ask…"

Beaming, Sigrun bounces happily on her feet. "It's a break-your-own-phylactery set! It has all kinds of tools so you can have _fun_ getting rid of it when you find it!"

The commander hears the healer's raucous laughter and makes her resolution. Next year, the Wardens will _not_ be marking this holiday. Not unless her request to transfer back to civilization is approved. Perhaps that can be _her_ gift, next Satinalia.


End file.
